Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Nicole
It’s been two days since the shoe incident.
And I still haven’t figured out how to look my new neighbor in the eye.
“Hey.” My big sister answers my FaceTime call with a smile. “Looks like you’re baking today?”
“Almond flour cookies.” I beam, holding up the recipe for her to see.
“I was in desperate need of a comfort treat.” And an excuse to keep my hands busy.
I wedge my phone between a flour container and the sriracha, angling it so that she can watch.
Nora’s face is framed by a messy topknot and what appears to be finger paint on her T-shirt.
Behind her, I spot my nieces twirling in princess dresses and a cat on the countertop.
It’s everything comforting.
“You look great,” Nora says, popping a piece of popcorn into her mouth. “You’re so much more sunkissed since you moved from New York.”
“Thanks,” I say, forcing a smile. “I only had to go through a month of sunburns first.”
She cackles. “Are you sure you’re related to me? Because I swear, I’ve never had that problem.”
“We share a dad. Science says so.” I wink, measuring coconut oil with the dexterity of a chemist. I dump it in and then sigh. “You want the tea about the new neighbor?”
“Oh, always. Mom told me that you think he hates you?” Nora sets her phone on what appears to be a stack of graham crackers and settles in, propping her chin on her hand. “Please tell me he didn’t use your moisturizer…”
I nearly drop my spoon. “No… Well, I don’t think so… I mean, I think he would’ve told me…” I cringe at the idea of Dom using the first iteration of my skincare line.
The one everyone said smelled like rotten eggs.
“Anyway.” Nora coughs. “Is he hot?”
I sigh, dropping the measuring spoon as my face heats up. “Offensively hot, actually… But also possibly allergic to smiling. Remember the Alabama basketball player Dad used to always root for on TV? That’s him. Except now he’s my neighbor and Cocoa’s arch-nemesis.”
Nora frowns. “So, the beef is with Cocoa? The most insanely adorable dog in the entire world? How could anyone ever be mad at him?”
I sigh, the guilt returning. “Well … Dominic accused my dog of ruining his shoes. Which is … fine, okay, I think Cocoa did do it … But also, he went full Terminator on me, and basically told me I was enabling Cocoa’s poor behavior.
And I’m not even sure that he’s wrong, but—” I flail a whisk in the air, nearly splattering almond milk across my wall.
“It was just … a lot. I had no idea how to handle it.”
Nora purses her lips as my face heats. “Sounds like someone’s crushing.”
“Take that back,” I hiss. “I do not crush on humorless basketball players. Especially ones who have less personality than this almond milk.” I hold the carton up in the air. “It doesn’t matter if he has a smirk that could light up a room.”
“A smirk that could light up a room?” Nora bursts into laughter, pausing to open an apple sauce for her daughter. “So I guess that means you’ve never actually seen him smile?”
“I mean, maybe online.” I scrape the mixing bowl with a silicone spatula, refusing to admit to my Googling habits. “And I don’t think that counts as a real smile if it’s in a team picture.”
“Okay.” She laughs. “So, what’re you gonna do to make up for the shoe incident?”
“I don’t know,” I breathe. “But I feel like I should do something. Maybe buy him new ones? Or I could feature him on my channel. I have fourteen thousand followers now.”
Nora actually wheezes from laughing so hard. “Fourteen. Thousand. What a flex, Nic. The man probably has a million, given his NBA career.”
“Ugh, I know,” I groan, mixing my ingredients with full force now. I reach for the eggs with Cocoa at my heels and grab the carton, pivoting.
And then…
Everything goes wrong.
Cocoa collides with my shins, and my grip on the eggs vanishes. Nora gasps as I juggle the carton, and then it falls, splattering the eggs onto the floor.
My jaw drops. I stare in silence.
Nora shrieks with laughter.
And Cocoa goes straight to cleaning up the mess.
I pick up the carton to confirm my worst fears. “It’s empty.”
Nora nods, her cheeks red from the laughter she’s stifling. “It probably is, yes… Now what?”
I glare at the mess, at the dog, and then at the phone screen. “I don’t even know. Why does everything I do always go wrong?”
Cocoa looks up at my shrill tone, tongue lolling, and I can’t even be mad. He’s so freaking cute.
I ruffle his fur with my clean hand. “You’re a menace. You know that?”
He barks once, victorious.
Nora’s voice, faint but persistent, filters in from the phone. “Is the kitchen destroyed? Is the dog alive?”
I lift the phone up to show her the carnage.
She claps. “Ten out of ten. Would watch again. I love this. This is the content you need to post. You could totally become an influencer.”
I shoot her a dirty look, which only makes her cackle harder. “I don’t want to be an influencer. I want to be a businesswoman.”
“You want to be the female version of Dad.” Nora’s voice drops an octave, her features softening.
I nod, pushing down the familiar tightness in my chest. “He builds things that last. People take him seriously. When he walks into a room, no one wonders if he belongs.”
Nora studies me for a beat.
I gesture vaguely at the floor. “Meanwhile, I make one mess and suddenly it’s all anyone sees.”
Nora’s smile softens. “It doesn’t sound like you’re talking about cookies…”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
She leans closer to the screen, her voice shifting into that familiar, no-nonsense cadence, the one that sounds a lot like our dad. “Okay. Then let’s stop spiraling and start solving. You made a mess. So, you clean it up. You figure it out. One step at a time.”
She has a point.
After one more moment of self-pity, I spring up, slip once, and then drag Cocoa to the hallway with my least sticky hand. “Okay. Time out for you, sir. I’ll be back when the kitchen is clean.”
He slumps on the tile and lets out a pitiful whine, unhappy with my choice. I gently shut the doggy gate and brace myself for clean-up.
I return to the kitchen with a brand new attitude and begin deep cleaning like I’m in a marathon, while Nora and her mini-mes encourage me from the screen. They all take turns laughing at me, and honestly, I would be laughing, too, if I wasn’t so focused on putting my kitchen back in order.
As I finish, I smile down at my work.
Mess cleaned up. Step one complete.
I take a victory lap around the island, breathing in the faint chemical scent of a job well done. I turn back to the halfway-made cookies and realize…
“You’re out of eggs,” Nora says, her voice serious, as if she knows exactly what’s going through my head. “Now what?”
“Instacart,” I quip, picking up the phone and scrolling to the app. I pop a carton of eggs into the cart. “A two-hour wait time?” I gasp. “The nearest store is twenty minutes away in LA traffic. The cookies will never make it.”
“Just go ask your hot neighbor for some eggs.” Nora’s voice echoes in my empty kitchen.
I whip my head toward the door as if he might be able to hear her. “Um… Who does that? We don’t do that anymore. That sounds like a terrible idea…”
She grins as I pop back to the FaceTime screen. “Do it. I dare you.”
“Um.” I eye my apartment door, remembering the way his frame towered over me. “What am I supposed to even say? Hey, neighbor! Funny story, my dog ruined your shoes, and now I’m out of eggs…”
She bursts into more giggles. “You could say, Hey, sorry to bug you, but do you have a couple of eggs I could borrow? Mine just died a tragic death and—”
“No,” I cut her off.
“Come on, just do it!” Nora keeps urging, and honestly, I mean, at this rate, I will have to throw the batter out…
“Fine.” I sigh and head for the door, Cocoa’s whine filling the apartment with a vengeance. “I’m going to let you go so I can focus,” I tell Nora as I slide my feet into my sandals. “I’ve given you enough entertainment for one night.”
“Okay, okay,” she agrees. “Go get ‘em, Nic. And maybe throw in a little apology, too.”
I nod and hang up. I grab a sweatshirt and pull it over my tank top, and then pull my hair back. It’s almost as if I’m prepping for war or something.
But still, I square my shoulders, grab a clean Pyrex container, and walk the three steps across the hall to Dom’s door.
I knock, but there’s no response. For a second, I think maybe he’s out, and I’ll be spared, though my cookie dough won’t.
But then the door swings open mid thought, and there he is—Dominic Neelson, in mesh shorts and a battered college T-shirt stretched across his chest, hair damp, face freshly shaved and still obnoxiously hot.
Just like I told Nora.
He looks down at me, eyes flickering from my face to the Pyrex, then to my sweatshirt, which is so oversized, it might actually belong to him.
“Let me guess,” he says, voice dry as the Mojave. “Cocoa ate your dinner, and now you want to know if I have any leftover steak to spare.”
I force a sweet smile. “He prefers carbs, actually. But … you were close.”
He leans on the doorframe, arms crossed, his biceps flexing. “I don’t bake.”
I blink, caught off guard. “What?”
He shrugs, feigning indifference, but there’s a spark of humor lifting one corner of his mouth. “Whatever you’re making”—he gestures to the flour all over my black leggings—”I won’t be competition. You’d definitely win.”
“Yeah, well, of course, I would.” I stammer over the words like I’ve never had an adult conversation in my life. “I’d totally win.”
His eyebrows raise. “At making the biggest mess?”
I raise my chin, refusing to back down. “I’d win a bake-off.” I lean past him and take in the pile of clothes on his couch. “And at doing laundry more than once a month.”
He laughs, low and unexpected, and my stomach does a strange flip. “Okay, that’s fair… What do you need?” he asks, softer now.
I hold up the Pyrex like it’s a peace offering. “Eggs. Two, if you can spare. Organic or regular. I’ll replace them tomorrow. I just couldn’t get the Instacart order here in time.”
He considers this for a long moment. Then, without a word, he steps back, leaving the door wide open.
I wait in the entryway, trying not to make it weird (again), but Dom just opens the fridge and grabs a carton from his giant stack of egg cartons.
“These aren’t cage-free,” he says, almost apologetic, as he hands them over. “But I think they’ll work for whatever you’re needing them for… Maybe.”
“I won’t judge,” I say, but the words come out feeble, like I’m afraid he’ll judge me for not judging. But I can’t help it, my mouth keeps moving. “So, do I even need to replace these eggs?” I clear my throat. “It looked like you had about a hundred of them in your fridge…”
“Eggs are a complete protein.” He shrugs, but his arms don’t uncross. “But no, you don’t need to replace them.”
I nod and tuck the eggs into the Pyrex lined with paper towels. “Okay. Well, thank you, Dom. You’re a lifesaver.”
He snorts. “That’s a first.”
I smile. “Maybe I’ll bake you a cookie. As a peace offering…”
He meets my gaze, and for a second, there’s a flicker of something I can’t read. “Yeah … how about just don’t let your dog pee in my shoes anymore. That’s good enough for me.”
“Right,” I mutter and step back, intending to leave, but he doesn’t close the door. Instead, he stands there, like he’s waiting for me to say something else. When I don’t, he gives a half-nod, half-shrug, and disappears inside.
Ugh, why am I so awkward?
I float back to my apartment, heart skipping a few beats in my ribcage. I close the door, set the eggs on the counter, and let out a sigh. ”I should still leave him cookies,” I say to myself.
Cocoa whines from the hallway. I let him out and he barrels into the kitchen, sniffing for more trouble.
I lean against the island and replay the conversation in my mind. The sarcasm, the jokes, the way he didn’t immediately close the door when I left.
“He’s obviously infuriatingly hot,” I tell my dog as I go back to my cookie baking. “And maybe a little nicer than I give him credit for.”
But just a little.